


Bone Weary

by Grundy



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dagor Bragollach, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 14:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18471112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grundy/pseuds/Grundy
Summary: Carnistir isn't in the best state of mind when he arrives at Amon Ereb after the Dagor Bragollach.





	Bone Weary

**Author's Note:**

> Belatedly catching up on posting B2MEM efforts. This one hits the Míriel, Battered but not Broken, and Growing Up With The World Watching prompts on the Fun With Fëanorions card.

Alone at last, after days coordinating what his steward stubbornly termed ‘evacuation’ but had in reality been little more than headlong flight, Carnistir rested his head against the refreshingly cool stone of the corridor wall.

He had foreseen the need when he first conceived of Amon Ereb, but he had foolishly hoped they’d never need to use the fortress, let alone under such circumstances.

He took a deep breath and straightened up, more out of habit than anything else. No use crying over what he couldn’t change. He’d heard that maxim from the time he was little. But his older brothers weren’t here yet, nor Curvo, and Ambarussa had ridden out with his guard to protect those arriving from Himlad. So there was no one to reprove him and no one he needed to set an example for.

He turned and slid down the wall to sit on the floor. He was tired, and dirty, and still stained with orc blood (and doubtless other bodily fluids), and at the moment all he could think about was that he didn’t want to move unless it was to go home.

This was not home.

Not Amon Ereb, not Thargelion, not even Beleriand. _Home_. Tirion. His mother and his aunts and his grandparents and Indis. Maybe his uncle, if the Valar hadn’t decided he needed punishing too.

His eye caught on the tapestry opposite. It was one of the ones his grandmother Míriel had done, before his father’s birth. It showed Telperion and Laurelin in brilliant silver and glorious gold, so finely worked one might almost think they could step through the fabric onto the Corollairë as it had been before…everything.

It’s a work he had once hoped to equal, back in the days when his most serious worry was not getting into fistfights with Tyelko in public lest they be the talk of every wagging tongue in Tirion. He might even have been reasonable to hope so.

Not now.

He can’t remember the last time he made something simply for the joy of it, or curiosity, or even just to hone his technique. Everything in Beleriand had to be subordinate to the driving reason that brought them here in the first place. Everything has been about those blasted jewels and Morgoth. He’s done very little for himself. Only his marriage and his son, and he had kept both secret, for their protection. So what exactly did he have to show for four hundred and fifty five years of the sun?

Indis giving him Míriel’s workshop had turned out to be something of a waste. He wondered if she regretted the gift. Perhaps she’d shut it up again, after they all left. There was very little he wouldn’t give to be back there now, in his own orderly, quiet space where he’d never have to think about orcs or wonder how many brothers he had left.

He tried to focus on the tapestry again, to chase away the morbid thoughts he was too tired to keep at bay. But looking at the two trees reminded him of Indis and the grandmother he’d never known. Silver and gold, day and night. But not opposites in the way his father had thought of them. They complemented each other rather than clashing. It would have been nice had they been able to stand together like the trees, rather than one having to make way for the other.

He wondered sometimes what life might have been like had Míriel not died. He would like to have known the grandmother Indis told him he was like in ways he’d never have thought. (Tyelko may have gotten the hair, but he’d gotten the talent.)

If Míriel had lived, everything would have been different. His father would have been different. But at the same time, he would not have had his aunts and uncles and cousins – or at least, not the same aunts and uncles and cousins.

He may not have them now, come to think of it. He hadn’t had time to reflect on it before now, but the way the entire northern and western horizons had been aflame didn’t bode well for the Arafinwions, and he couldn’t even venture a guess what might have happened as far away as Hithlum.

While he’s busy imagining grandparents alive, maybe it would be more sensible to wish his grandfather had lived instead. He’d still have his family as he knew them, and maybe they’d still be quarreling, but at least they would have stayed in Aman, where it was safe and orcs were nothing more than Tyelko’s favorite campfire scare story.

Morgoth could have just run off to Beleriand and been Thingol’s problem. Wouldn’t that have been nice?

Carnistir sighed and kicked his boots off, and pulled off his filthy socks as well. It might be easier to burn them than try to clean them. He peeled his tunic off next, discovering once he could see the whole thing that it was actually worse than the socks.

The sensible thing to do would be to get up, haul himself to the bath, scrub off, and then sleep on the first dry flat surface he found after that.

Of course, that would involve moving, and now that he’d finally stopped moving, he wasn’t inclined to start again.

This being the family level, he didn’t have to worry about his steward or anyone else chivvying him to get up and haul himself to the bath. He could bloody well sleep here in the corridor if he pleased. At least, he could until any of his older brothers showed up.

For all he knew, Tyelko would arrive right about the time he fell asleep and kick him awake before demanding to know why he’s sleeping on the floor half naked.

As annoying as that might be, he was willing to risk it. Or risk getting lectured tomorrow by his oldest brother, who would probably leave him where he was to prove the point that it was a bad idea and let him wake up with a sore neck or back or whatever in the morning.

He’d deal with that if and when it happened. Just like he’d deal with everything else he didn’t want to think about right now. This might be a setback, but it was not the end. Tomorrow, he’s going to have to face it all.

He breathed out and determinedly did not think about the million and one things he’ll need to get started on. There would be time enough tomorrow to worry about it, staring with organizing what remained of his people and settling them in and around the fortress. For now, they’re probably just as weary in body and spirit as he is, and they probably weren’t being any pickier about where they sleep.

He’ll be the leader they need tomorrow.

But for now, he just needed some time to himself.

And to not think.

And sleep…


End file.
